Red and Blue
by Crystal Rose of Pollux
Summary: Red is the color of fire and drive.  Blue is the color of water and the cold.  A pre-series fic showing the genesis of the unlikely friendship between the two corporals who wore these colors so proudly.
1. Letters

_Author's note: I have always been intrigued with LeBeau and Newkirk's friendship, particularly with how it possibly began. I had a flashback in one of my older fics that theorized that they probably needed time to warm up to each other, and had a vague idea of how it might have happened. And after I took a look at this month's prompts on the 31 Days community on LiveJournal, I couldn't stop the plotbunnies; this is likely to be a short multichapter fic, and I also intend to continue with my current smuggler fic at the same time. This first chapter was inspired by today's prompt, "One day here, and the next day gone."  
This fic takes place in the fall of 1940, so LeBeau, Newkirk, and the Germans are going to be the only familiar faces in this fic. I describe Stalag 13 in this chapter as "filled with Englishmen," as LeBeau had alluded to himself being the only Frenchman at Stalag 13 in episode 24, "How to Cook a German Goose by Radar." Also, there wouldn't be any Americans there yet. I also refer to Burkhalter as a colonel; I didn't think it was too far-fetched to believe that he was promoted to general by the end of 1942, as episode 1 suggested. Also, it goes without saying that the letter that LeBeau is reading is supposed to be in French.  
_

* * *

The chilly breezes of autumn had since descended upon Bavaria; it was mid-October, 1940. As the sun rose over the horizon, its rays illuminated a compound surrounded by a tall, barbed-wire fence. Another day had dawned for the captive soldiers in Stalag 13.

In Barracks Two, one such soldier was already awake. Corporal Louis LeBeau preferred getting up as early as he possibly could to make breakfast for himself. With any luck, he could finish before the others woke up; he had no desire to cook for a barracks filled with Englishmen who could not appreciate his creations. They sneered at the French cuisine, but, more often than not, particularly when the mess hall rations were worse than usual, they would end up stealing what they could from him—either by stealth or by force.

There was only one man in Barracks Two who didn't bother with trying to steal the Frenchman's food, but it wasn't because he was trying to be nice; Corporal Peter Newkirk wanted nothing to do with the hotheaded Frenchman. Newkirk had clashed with him once when LeBeau had first arrived in Stalag 13; arguments had eventually culminated in an all-out, two-man brawl in the cooler, with no clear winner. Neither of them had spoken to each other after that incident, though they frequently traded glares. Between that and the general hostility between LeBeau and the rest of his barracks-mates, Barracks Two had come to be known by its nickname of "Waterloo."

Newkirk didn't get along all that well with his fellow Englishmen, either; they found him to be cold and aloof; in addition, his status as a poor street kid from Stepney did not, in their opinion, warrant any sort of prestige. It didn't help that Newkirk had been frequently caught pilfering from them.

LeBeau cast a scornful glance at the others before putting the finishing touches on the crêpes he had been preparing. Satisfied, he wrapped up the two extras and secured them in his footlocker, while eating two before the others began to stir.

"You cooking again…?" one of the RAF sergeants sneered, being the next to wake.

"You just missed it," LeBeau replied, with a smug smirk.

Newkirk now awoke, cast a glance at the Frenchman, and shook his head in dismissal.

_Honestly, I think those ruddy fools threw him in here just for a laugh_, he thought. _The Germans knew he'd be a misfit; it must be their way of getting cheap entertainment from us_…

Corporal Langenscheidt soon came by to order them out for morning roll call, and the men immediately knew that this meant that Schultz had gone to get the mail. The Englishmen in the camp now found it difficult to focus on their breakfast; they knew of the Blitz on London and were desperate for news about their friends and family. Even LeBeau had to admit that he knew where they were coming from; his own beloved France, forced to surrender, was now being overrun by the Germans, as well, and he was waiting for news from home, too.

When Schultz did arrive with the mail, he was immediately swarmed by the mob of Englishmen. Newkirk, who was lying on his usual top bunk near the door, deftly grabbed the stack of letters from Schultz, allowing the sergeant to escape as the mob turned their attention to the East Ender.

"Steady on; you're like a ruddy stampede!" he chided him. "Right. Give me 'alf a minute; you'll get your precious letters."

He began to toss the letters to their recipients as though each one was a shuriken; LeBeau cursed him as his letters missed and hit the floor. The Frenchman retrieved his letters and clambered into his bunk to read them. One was from his girlfriend; the other was from his elderly mother. He opened his mother's letter first, taking note of how her handwriting seemed slightly shaky. She had a good reason; she had been through much heartache in the last several months—seeing her two sons drafted, seeing her two daughters called to work on the home front, seeing her husband also called to work, losing her father, dealing with the Germans marching through the streets even as she laid her father to rest, and then realizing that her father's last will and testament, along with all of his assets, had somehow vanished overnight. Hearing of her son's capture at Salon was one more heartache for her to bear.

The corporal cursed his captors again, but then focused his attention on the letter.

_Dear Louis,_

_The news that you are alive and well in the Luft Stalag comes as both a relief and a sorrow to me. Your brother was badly wounded, but remained free; he is still recovering from his injuries, but will, hopefully, recover. Your father and sisters are fine, albeit busy, and send you their love. There is little for me to do but sit by the window all day and pray for you all._

_The sights outside the window provide no comfort. The Germans are treating Paris as though they were here since time began; your poor grandfather must be rolling over in his grave. Louis, I do not wish to upset you, but you must know the truth—no trace of his assets has been found. But do not dwell on it; you have plenty of other things to worry about._

_I implore you, Louis, to be safe. Come back to me; whether swiftly or slowly, swear to me you will return alive. I can only pray that you are unhurt, and that I shall see you again soon. I shall anxiously await your response_.

The next several lines had been cut out of the paper by the German censor who had inspected the mail, but LeBeau knew that she had, undoubtedly, written words of encouragement to revive his fighting spirit, likely capping it off with an impassioned "_Vive la France._"

Giselle had then closed her letter with a mother's words of love for her son.

LeBeau shut his eyes for a moment, already composing a reply in his head. He didn't want to worry her; there was no need to tell her that he was the only Frenchman in a stalag full of Englishmen and was ostracized. He, too, could only pray that his family would remain safe, and that his elder brother, Jean-Philippe, would fully recover as his mother had hoped.

He sighed, hoping that what Colonel Klink kept saying about Stalag 13 being impossible to escape from was just a lie designed to lower their morale. He longed to go home and bring some relief to his mother—and then he would find a way to fight for France and free his home from the Germans.

Newkirk, in the meantime, had finished his letter-tossing and now sat back to read his own letter. His eyebrows arched upon seeing that his only letter was from his younger sister, Mavis. A sinking feeling grew in his gut; had his girlfriend not sent a letter because she was too busy? Had the letter gotten lost? Or was she…?

The corporal shook these thoughts from his head and opened his sister's letter.

_Dear Peter,_

_I hope you are doing well; I know it must be terrible for you in that prison, but, at this point, I'm just relieved that you are alive. I guess I have a lot to tell you._

_I'm writing this to you from a little shelter; it's not safe to stay in the flat anymore. The building itself received some damage, and we were ordered to evacuate the building—those who hadn't scarpered already, of course. I had a little time to take a few things with me; I took the photos, of course. Mum's ring was the only thing of monetary value; I took that and her metronome. I also took her teakettle; I know it meant a lot to you. And I took a few of those spy thriller books from your collection. I didn't have time to take anything else; if I get the chance, I'll try to see if there's anything else I can take. I know I wanted to take some more things of yours, since you're all the way over there in that ruddy stalag. They also help remind me of you._

_I haven't seen Dad since the madness started; I don't know if he left town, if he's still here, or if he was done in. I'm baffled; you know how Dad's always tracks us down, asking for more money. Well, it's just up and stopped. It's eerie, Peter—so very eerie. It's not that I miss him, of course; I guess I just don't like being surrounded by all of these strangers._

_And even though I certainly don't miss Dad, I still hope he's not dead. I'm not feeling sympathy for him, Peter; it's that I honestly don't want to see any more deaths! I went to the building where George and Patrick lived to see if they needed any help getting to the shelter. Peter, they're __dead__. I saw them—lying there on the footpath; it was absolutely ghastly_.

Newkirk had to stop reading for a moment. George and Patrick were two of his old schoolmates; the three of them, along with three other school friends, had been known around pubs as "the Dartboard Six." The Dartboard Six had been inseparable since their schooldays, but had only received that nickname after their school days, playing darts in the various East End pubs every few nights, their favorite haunt being the Red Lion. Regular visitors soon learned not to challenge the Dartboard Six if they wished to hold onto their money; newcomers learned the hard way.

It was the onset of the war that had finally broken up the Dartboard Six; Newkirk, along with the other three—James, Roger, and Phillip—had been drafted to the RAF, in separate squadrons. The corporal could still recall their last game of darts in the Red Lion, drinking a toast to each other and to the day that the Dartboard Six would eventually reunite.

Now… that day would never come. There had always been the thought in each of their minds that one of the four draftees would not return, but the thought of losing the two left at home never once crossed their minds; it was a terrible irony, Newkirk realized.

The corporal let out a ragged sigh and turned his attention back to the rest of his sister's letter.

_Peter, it's terrible. I never thought I'd ever see something like this; it's a nightmare, and I can't wake up from it, no matter how hard I try. At first, I was only worried about you not coming home. Now, I'm also worried about you coming home to find out that I'm no longer here. I am not ashamed to admit that I am afraid, though I do wish that, sometimes, I could be as brave as you._

_You are in my thoughts always, Peter. I only hope that I will be able to see you again someday_.

She closed her letter and signed it. The censor hadn't cut anything out; he probably had been amused by the despair that filled it, and that only made Newkirk realize that there may be a spark of truth to the rumors that the Germans were trying to get them to believe about England losing.

The corporal checked the date on the letter. To his dismay, Mavis had sent the letter weeks ago; there was no way of knowing if she was still alive at the present moment. Nor was he sure about his three friends in the other RAF squadrons—he hadn't heard from them in months; for all Newkirk knew, after hearing about George and Patrick's deaths, he was the last surviving member of the Dartboard Six.

_Stay in that shelter, please, Mavis_… he silently begged her. _Never mind about me things; I can replace those. I can't replace you_.

The thoughts of returning to London to find out that he was the last surviving member of his family, as well, crept into his consciousness and chilled him to the bone. Well, to be honest, he wasn't sure he cared about what happened to his no-good father, but Mavis was innocent and deserved to live.

_Mavis won't ever dare to flee to the countryside all alone. I need to get out of here. I need to see her. I need to keep her safe. And I need to avenge George and Patrick; they weren't even soldiers. I can't let that pass…_

His eyes narrowed as he carefully stored the letter. He had taken all that he was willing to take from the Germans; they could not expect for him to stay here. Hopefully, after his failed escape attempts over the past few months, they would not expect him to try yet another one.

The door to the barracks opened again as Schultz nervously peeked inside before entering.

"By order of the Kommandant, the barracks are to be cleaned and ready for an inspection by Colonel Burkhalter this afternoon," he announced. He looked up to the Frenchman. "LeBeau? The Kommandant wishes for you to make a gourmet meal for him tonight. He requests it as a gentleman, and, furthermore, he says it is an order."

He was met with a chorus of complaints and curses (LeBeau's voice responding the loudest), though it was Newkirk who, for once, didn't say a word. The East Ender's brow furrowed as Schultz left, and he absently fingered the throwing knife he had successfully smuggled into camp—his "pencil sharpener." He was still amazed that he had managed to get it in under the noses of the guards; granted, it wasn't much against the Germans' weapons, which was why Newkirk hadn't used it yet. But with Burkhalter coming for another inspection, this might be a chance for him to use it. He could avenge his dead friends by taking out that smug creep. If he played his cards correctly, he could throw the knife in such a way that no one would know where it came from, and in the ensuing confusion, he could find a way of escape.

The challenge was, of course, finding a way to throw the knife in a way that he couldn't be implicated in whatever resulted from it. He already had taken the first precaution of not letting anyone know that he had a knife—he carried it beneath his sweater at all times in a secret pocket just below the back collar where no one would think to look.

Newkirk clambered down from his bunk as the others began to start cleaning up; he knew that if he didn't pitch in, the others would confront him. They were already confronting LeBeau, who was flatly refusing to help clean up.

"I have kept my area of the barracks clean, _non_?" the Frenchman retorted. "I have to cook the meal for those monsters; I am not cleaning, as well!"

"So you 'ave to cook a ruddy meal? It ain't the end of the world!" Newkirk shot back, finally breaking his silence with the Frenchman; he normally would not have bothered with his complaints, but after receiving the news of the deaths of two of his closest friends, he was in no mood to put up with him today.

"When I want your opinion, I shall ask you—and that will be never!" LeBeau retorted. "I have suffered enough at the hands of the Germans; I refuse to have to suffer from you, as well!"

"Oh, you're going to suffer from me," Newkirk retorted, giving the shorter man a shove.

The shove was all it took; Newkirk turned back to get the broom to begin sweeping, and found himself tackled off of his feet as French curses filled his ears. The English corporal elbowed his French counterpart in the stomach, momentarily knocking the wind out of him, allowing some of the other soldiers to pull LeBeau off of him and start yelling at him.

Newkirk cursed; the other Englishmen were more concerned with knocking LeBeau down a few pegs than helping their fellow countryman get back up.

"Leave off!" Newkirk ordered, shoving the others out of the way. "This is between me and 'im!"

"I do not need you telling them to leave me alone!" LeBeau shot back.

"Well, I ain't doing to save you," Newkirk retorted. "I ought to-"

"_Was_? _Was_?" Schultz bellowed, coming back inside. He groaned as he saw the scene inside; Schultz and Langenscheidt were the only two guards who did not enjoy seeing LeBeau squabble with the Englishmen. "Gentlemen, why must there be so much fighting?"

"He's the one who always starts it, the cheeky rat!" an RAF airman said, shoving LeBeau.

"Perhaps you should come to the kitchen now," Schultz said, deciding that if LeBeau was separated from them for some time, it would help calm things down by the end of the day. "You… you can plan the meal better if you are in there, in the surroundings that promote good food, _ja_? Come."

Everyone in the barracks gave Schultz a dark look—LeBeau, for being forced to do all of the planning and cooking now, and the Englishmen, for realizing that LeBeau had gotten off of cleaning duty after all.

LeBeau and Newkirk exchanged a pair of glares as the big man escorted the Frenchman out. Newkirk muttered something under his breath and began to sweep, ignoring the pain in his arm that had resulted from colliding with the floorboards.

"LeBeau…" Schultz said, with a shake of his head. "You are a good cook—you make food that is better than what my wife could make! You could easily win friends instead of enemies with such a skill. Why must you fight with them?"

LeBeau rolled his eyes, annoyed at being lectured to.

"You would never understand," the Frenchman responded, darkly.

Schultz decided that he may as well give up, and shrugged.

"_Ja_," he sighed. "I know _nothing_…"


	2. A Common Goal

In spite of LeBeau being sent to the kitchen to start his preparations, the tension in the stalag did not reduce. Klink and the guards only grew more nervous as they prepared to perfect everything for Burkhalter's arrival. The majority of the Englishmen grumbled as they were forced to clean everything, soon pushing the Frenchman from their thoughts as they worked. Only Newkirk was still fuming over what had happened.

_Ruddy fool is asked to cook a meal and decides to declare a personal war on the entire place while I've got to shut up after I've lost two of me best mates! He's lucky that Schultz dragged him off to the kitchen; if he had stayed here a moment longer, I'd have knocked some sense into him!_

Newkirk got up after finishing the scrubbing of the floors, cursing everyone he could think of for this indignity. With any luck, he would have to endure no more by the close of the day.

Schultz returned to shoo them into formation as Burkhalter arrived. The rotund colonel cast an unimpressed glance upon the assembled Englishmen as Klink babbled on about how nobody had ever escaped from Stalag 13.

_Look at them_, Newkirk thought, bitterly. _They're a right set of madmen—the lot of them. Klink goes on like an idiot while that human blimp acts like he's the master of our fate… It's ruddy sickening, if you ask me. But never mind that; once we're dismissed, I need to figure out a way to get that Colonel Burkhalter without letting them know I did it_.

Newkirk's mind raced as he struggled to come up with a plan. They would soon be restricted to barracks, he knew, while the colonels ate dinner. That would be the best time to strike. If he could somehow get across the compound without being seen, throw the knife, and make it back, he would have an airtight alibi. The problem was, however, finding a good throwing spot so that he could have a chance to aim and follow through.

He pictured the interior of Klink's quarters; he knew it well, having been forced to serve as a waiter on some of the previous occasions when Klink had entertained visitors. It would be impossible to approach the dining area from the front without being seen by the guards.

But what about approaching from the side of the kitchen? There was no "back door," but there was a window in the kitchen just big enough for him to enter through. He could then open the kitchen door ever so slightly and do what he had to do. The only hiccup with that plan, of course, was that LeBeau would be in the kitchen. He knew that LeBeau hated the enemy as much as he did, but there was every chance that he would stop him—either out of fear or out of spite. That could easily be resolved by knocking him out—something that Newkirk would have no qualms about doing after their most recent brawl.

Nodding to himself, he proceeded to put his plan into action.

Meanwhile, in the kitchen, LeBeau was hard at work on the dinner. Burkhalter had demanded, in advance, a serving of hasenpfeffer as the main course. LeBeau had to accept.

_He is going to keep coming here just to eat my cooking_, the Frenchman fumed. _That is all I shall be doing for the remainder of the war… unless I escape_.

LeBeau wanted to escape as much as any of the Englishmen in the stalag, but he was far more practical about it. He knew that escape would be meaningless without a foolproof plan to ensure that he would come out of the attempt alive. He was thinking more about his mother than himself; her already-devastated state would increase a hundredfold if she were to receive word of her younger son's death. And, of course, LeBeau wanted to live. He wanted to live to return to battle as one of the Free French, liberate his homeland, and return to his mother as a triumphant hero of the war. Yes, that was the glory he so longed for—to fight for his beloved France once again, not remain in a cage for the remainder of the war, cooking for overweight enemy officers!

The corporal's thoughts were diverted as Schultz entered the kitchen.

"The colonels are getting hungry," he said. "Is the food ready?"

"The hasenpfeffer needs just a little more time," LeBeau replied, coldly. "You can give them the bread to whet their appetites."

"But first, I must taste everything," the sergeant insisted. "I am the food taster; I must make sure that you are not trying to poison the Kommandant or Colonel Burkhalter."

"I wouldn't be that foolish," LeBeau admitted. "I intend to survive this war."

"Very wise," Schultz commended. "Then you can open up a restaurant after the war—preferably in Heidelberg; you would have a steady line of customers."

"Really?" the Frenchman asked, eyebrows arched.

"_Ja_—my family."

"As intriguing as your offer is," LeBeau said, sardonically. "If I am going to open a restaurant, it would most certainly be in Paris."

"A bit of a drive from Heidelberg, but well worth it," Schultz insisted, pausing to take in the mouth-watering aroma of the hasenpfeffer.

LeBeau rolled his eyes, trying to hide that fact that he was partially amused by Schultz. He had to admit to himself that the good-natured sergeant was practically impossible to hate. Goodness knew that LeBeau had tried to do so upon arriving at Stalag 13, believing him to be just like all of the other enemy soldiers that he had dealt with up to that point. But Schultz was not like them. It was because of the sergeant's willingness to supply him with ingredients that allowed LeBeau to cook in the barracks, though Schultz often requested several samples of the finished product in exchange.

"The next time I go home on furlough, you must let me take some of your creations back with me," the big man went on. "If you could only teach my Gretchen how to cook like this…"

"Schuuuuuuultz, what is taking so long?" Klink's voice called from the dining area.

Schultz gulped and ran out with a dish of bread, explaining that the hasenpfeffer needed more time, leaving LeBeau alone in the kitchen again to put the final touches on it.

It needed just a little bit more pepper, the chef realized, but that would require grinding it out himself. Though tempted to serve it as is, chef's pride ordered that he make the necessary addition; after all, he would be eating what remained.

He poured himself out a few peppercorns and began to use a mortar and pestle to grind them. The task caused him to turn away from the window.

And that was what the Englishman outside the window had been waiting for. Newkirk silently slid the window open and clambered inside without a sound; it was an easy task for a cat burglar like him. Slowly and silently, he let his feet touch the floor as he began to creep over towards LeBeau. A sharp blow to his shoulders would render him unconscious long enough for Newkirk to throw the knife and have done with.

LeBeau had just finished grinding the pepper and had turned to walk back towards the stove when he saw Newkirk standing inches from him, his arm raised to strike.

Neither of the two corporals moved nor spoke for a moment as they registered the situation. LeBeau was the first to act, moving to defend himself. He thrust the mortar full of ground pepper into the Englishman's face.

"COR—!" Newkirk began, shutting his eyes. LeBeau had clapped a hand over his mouth, cutting him off.

"What is going on in there?" Klink asked, hearing Newkirk's cut-short yell.

"It is nothing, Monsieur Commandant!" LeBeau called, as he proceeded to hold the temporarily-blinded Newkirk in a headlock. "I… I just found a rat in the kitchen!"

Newkirk let out a muffled protest, followed by a sneeze.

"And what was that?" Klink asked.

"Sorry, Sir; I dropped some pepper, as well!" LeBeau bluffed.

"Klink…" Burkhalter said, his eyes narrowing as he pushed the plate of bread aside, his appetite waning considerably. "I highly recommend that you make sure that there are no vermin around the next time an officer comes by to hold an inspection—or eat here."

"But of course, Colonel Burkhalter…" Klink said, going pale. "Sergeant Schultz will see to it that the rat is expelled from the camp. Schultz, help LeBeau get rid of that rat!"

"No!" LeBeau called. "Do not open the door; he might escape that way!"

"Impossible; no one ever escapes from Stalag 13—not even a rat!" Klink insisted.

"Klink, shut up," Burkhalter ordered, with a roll of his eyes.

"Yes, Sir; shutting up…" Klink murmured.

"Now…" Burkhalter said. "Tell your sergeant to go inside there and ensure that the food has not been contaminated."

"You heard him, Schultz; go!"

"At once, _Herr Kommandant_!" the big man said.

LeBeau pulled Newkirk over to the edge of the kitchen, panicking as the Englishman, whose eyes were watering, let out another muffled sneeze.

Schultz opened the door and cautiously looked inside. He froze, and his jaw dropped as he beheld the sight of the two corporals. LeBeau could only give him a shrug and a helpless glance, as if to say that he wasn't quite sure what had gotten into Newkirk, either.

Schultz shut his eyes as he pulled out of the kitchen, repeatedly mouthing, "I see _nothing_…!"

"Well, Schultz?" Klink asked.

Schultz gave the two colonels one of his sheepish grins.

"I am sorry, _Herr Kommandant_, but I am somewhat afraid of rats, and if I go in there—"

"Mmmph!" Klink replied, shaking his fist at the sergeant. "Oh, Colonel Burkhalter, they send me the men that they have scraped from the bottom of the barrel! The fact that I am able to maintain such strict discipline in this camp and have such a perfect record is a miracle! Though, I am certain that my natural skill as a leader might have something to do with it…"

"Klink…" Burkhalter said, massaging the bridge of his nose. "Perhaps we should forget the hasenpfeffer tonight."

"Yes; if the colonel will allow me, I would be most honored to buy you a meal at the Hofbrau in town."

"Fine," the rotund officer replied. He could enjoy the Frenchman's cooking some other time—when he was certain that the place was free of rodents.

He got up from the table and headed outside, aiming to get inside his staff car. Klink was right behind him, apologizing profusely for the nonexistent rat ruining the meal for the both of them.

It was only after that LeBeau saw them drive off through the window that he released Newkirk, who let out another giant sneeze.

"Me eyes…" he gasped. "Water… me eyes…"

"Not a chance!" LeBeau shot back. He cursed the Englishman. "You were trying to attack me when my back was turned! Miserable coward!"

"Oi, you tackled me in the barracks when me back was turned!" Newkirk countered. "That makes you as much of a coward, if not more so!"

"_Non_, I tackled you when you were still turning way," LeBeau insisted. "It is not my fault that you did not notice me!"

"What is going on in here?" Schultz demanded, entering the kitchen. "Never mind; I do _not_ want to know! Both of you, get back to the barracks!" His expression softened. "And if there really is no rat, may I have some of the hasenpfeffer?"

LeBeau gave Schultz a long stare.

"I will stay and clean up the kitchen before returning to the barracks with him," the Frenchman said. "Let me handle this, and I'll see if you can have some hasenpfeffer later."

"_Ja_, but no more monkey business! …Please?" Schultz added, before going. "And no fighting!"

LeBeau didn't reply as Schultz left, looking instead at Newkirk, who was on his knees, rubbing his eyes vigorously.

"_D'accord, d'accord_," he murmured, filling a pot with water. "Try to open your eyes, if you please…"

Newkirk obeyed him, for once, but still yelled out a few well-chosen curses as LeBeau poured the water over his eyes, trying to flush the pepper out. LeBeau continued to do so until Newkirk was able to open his eyes and see again without too much pain.

"What on earth possessed you to sneak in through the window just to attack me?" LeBeau demanded. "You could have waited until I walked through the barracks door first—not that I am trying to give you ideas!"

"Oh, leave off!" Newkirk ordered, his eyes still watering slightly. He sneezed again before continuing. "Don't flatter yourself by thinking I went through all that trouble to get back at you; you weren't me main target. I just 'ad to knock you out to get to the next phase, and Cor blimey, it'd be even more of a pleasure to do it now after what you just put me through."

"You received exactly what was coming to you," the Frenchman retorted. "I am not some helpless person just because I am short!" He paused, frowning as Newkirk's words sunk in. "You were trying to attack one of them? That is suicide!"

"Not that you would care," Newkirk shot back, coldly. "You ruined the one chance I 'ad at finishing off Burkhalter!"

"Finish him off?" LeBeau repeated, incredulously. "How were you going to do that—invoke a mysterious power and force him to choke on his bread?"

"It doesn't matter to you what I was planning; I 'ave to give it up now."

"Well excuse me for coming to my own defense," the Frenchman replied, sardonically. There was a pinch of pepper left in the mortar, he realized. He proceeded to add it to the hasenpfeffer for the sake of completion; Newkirk recoiled involuntarily. LeBeau rolled his eyes before continuing.

"You are lucky that I stopped you from such a foolish endeavor," he went on. "Had you tried anything, they would have had you put to death—even if you had failed."

"Well, I wasn't going to make it obvious that I was the one what done it," Newkirk replied, darkly. "In the confusion, I would go over the wire."

LeBeau looked at the Englishman.

"You were going to leave like that?" he asked. "You don't have anything—food, map, overcoat…" He shook his head. "You would have gotten yourself starved, lost, or frozen; knowing you, perhaps you would have managed to do all three! You are probably lucky that all of your escape attempts have failed—you were saved from the elements!"

"And I suppose you 'ave developed the perfect escape plan that takes all of the 'elements' into detail?" Newkirk asked.

LeBeau knew he was being sarcastic, but he saw no reason why he couldn't be smug about it.

"Perhaps I have."

The Englishman's eyebrows arched now, and LeBeau could tell that he was debating on whether or not he should swallow his pride and ask him what he was planning, or if he should stubbornly try to escape on his own yet again.

"Right," he said at last. "What exactly is this plan of yours?"

"You expect me to help a man to escape after he tried to attack me?" LeBeau asked, derisively.

"I told you, I was after Burkhalter!" Newkirk said. "If I 'ad done it without knocking you out first, you would've been blamed for it!"

"Oh, _merci_; I did not know you cared so much!" The Frenchman's voice dripped with sarcasm.

"Look; I just want to get out of 'ere," Newkirk said.

"And what of me? You think I _like_ cooking for these animals?"

The two corporals exchanged fiery glances for a moment, but then they looked away as they realized that beneath all of their differences, they had a common goal. And when it came down to it, they were on the same side.

"_D'accord_," said LeBeau. "If you make it worth my while, I will help you get out of here. But you are on your own after that."

"What do you want?" Newkirk asked.

"I know you have a nice collection of money that you got from the others after your poker and blackjack games," LeBeau said. "I want travel funds."

"Of all the cheeky—!"

"I might need it to help me along the way—train tickets, or possibly bribes. You do not _have_ to agree, of course; if you would rather stay here…"

Newkirk gritted his teeth.

"Right; supposing I give you the money, what do I get in exchange?"

"You would get my help in getting past the outside grounds of Stalag 13, plus provisions," LeBeau said, indicating the hasenpfeffer.

Newkirk stared at the stew, and then at LeBeau again.

"You could leave me alone with nothing after I give you the money," he said. "Just 'ow do I know that I can trust you?"

"You do not," LeBeau said, matter-of-factly. "Nor do I know if I can trust you. You could attack me when my back is turned again and leave me unconscious for the guards to find."

"So now I know you'll be carrying more of that ruddy pepper on you. Blimey, that stuff is murder on your eyes…"

"Be grateful that I did not use chili powder," LeBeau countered. "And after what you tried to do, I have more of a right to say that I cannot trust you."

"Well, at least we know where we stand," Newkirk said, wryly.

LeBeau gave a nod. They knew where they stood, but they also knew that they would both have to trust each other to get out of here.

"Right; when do we make our move?" asked Newkirk.

"Now is the best time; Klink has stepped out, and people think we are chasing a rat," he said. "We will go to the barracks and tell Schultz that we went to get something to catch the rat. We grab the essentials we will need for the journey, then come here for the food."

"And just 'ow do we go about getting out?"

"I will explain that as we go along," LeBeau said. "I am not going to risk having you run off to save your own skin."

Newkirk's eyes narrowed.

"You'd better 'ave a plan," he said, scowling.

"Believe me, I want to get out of here as much as you do," LeBeau said. "I could leave any old night, but I do not have the monetary provisions. Working with the likes of you is an inconvenience I am willing to put up with temporarily to ensure my freedom."

"Likewise," the Englishman said, darkly. "Don't expect me to shake 'ands to finalize this…"

"Believe me, I wasn't going to ask," LeBeau assured him. "Come; our time is limited."

The Frenchman and the Englishman departed the kitchen, glaring at each other out of the corners of their eyes.

It was going to be a most uneasy truce.


	3. Into the West

The corporals' indifferent barracks-mates didn't even give them a second glance as they entered and rummaged through their footlockers for essentials, namely money and leftover snacks from their Red Cross packages. They took their collection of letters, as well—the only sentimental objects that remained with them, though Newkirk also took his deck of cards.

It was Schultz who questioned their actions, asking them why they were leaving the barracks with their overcoats.

"We need something to catch the rat in," LeBeau said, as though he was stating the obvious. "Do you expect us to try to catch it with our bare hands?"

"They bite, you know," Newkirk deadpanned, as he walked by the sergeant.

Schultz gave an "I know nothing" shrug and let them return to the kitchen.

"Take the bread from the dining room," said LeBeau, once they were inside. He had managed to take a pair of sacks from his footlocker—one he had previously used to store various odds and ends. He now stored several servings of the hasenpfeffer inside the sacks, hoping that the stew wouldn't spill as they traveled, as Newkirk retrieved the bread. He handed half of it to LeBeau.

"Right, so we've got our provisions," said the Englishman. "Just 'ow do we get over the wire?"

"At what point did I mention anything about going _over_ the wire?" LeBeau asked. "Going over the wire was your idea—one that, in my opinion, would not have worked."

"Can we get to the plan, if Your Lordship is done with 'is chiding?"

"Some time back, Schultz gave me permission to dig just outside the fence to get some mushrooms for a meal that Klink wanted me to make," the Frenchman replied, deciding to ignore Newkirk's sarcasm. "I dug a little deep just under the fence, and I covered the hole up with brush, with a layer of dirt on top. That way, when I finally managed to get the funds I needed, I would have a way to escape when the time was right."

Newkirk had to admit to himself that it was a clever idea, but he refused to admit it out loud.

"And you mean to say that Schultz didn't realize what you were doing?" he asked.

"Please," LeBeau said, with a wave of his hand. "He would not notice an escape if we ran by him blowing trumpets and waving flags as we did gymnastics over the wire. The caution is for the other guards."

Newkirk rolled his eyes, trying to hide a vestige of a smile that had formed involuntarily upon being amused by the Frenchman's joke.

"Fine, Schultz won't see us go out," he conceded. "But 'ow do we stop the other guards from seeing us, eh?"

"That is even simpler," LeBeau said. "Do we have everything?"

"Yeah, but you didn't answer the question…"

LeBeau stuck his head out of the window in response, calling for Schultz.

"Are you mad?" Newkirk hissed. "Why are you drawing attention to us?"

"I told you, I am the one who has reason not to trust you; just play along!" the Frenchman instructed, as Schultz came running by.

"_Was_?" the sergeant asked, close to panicking.

"Schultz, the rat went out the window—he went towards the east fence!" LeBeau pointed. "Oh, he is a big monster, Schultz! Have the area searched; you can then trap it!"

"_Ja_, and the Big Shot will be pleased!" Schultz finished. He began to call for some of the other guards, leading them to the east fence.

The searchlights began to follow the running guards out of habit, as LeBeau had been counting on.

"Now!" he hissed at Newkirk before taking his bundles of food and clothes and climbing out the window.

Newkirk stared for a moment before quickly following.

_Right. I'll admit it. Ruddy good idea, if it ends up working_…

Creeping from shadow to shadow, the two corporals made it to the part of the fence with the hidden breech. LeBeau pulled the brush out of the hole, pushed the food across it, and slipped under it himself. Newkirk followed suit, the two getting up and running off for the woods. It was only after they were a significant distance away that they paused to catch their breath.

"And that is how you successfully escape," LeBeau said, with a satisfied smirk.

"Right," Newkirk sighed, pulling the wad of money from his pocket; while most of the money was in pounds, there were a fair amount of marks that he had won from Schultz on several occasions. "Pounds won't do you any good until you get to London, but if you think you'll be needing some—"

"I can have my own money in my bank account converted to pounds when I stop in Paris," LeBeau said, with a wave of his hand. "I shall only need marks for now."

"You're going to Paris?" Newkirk asked, incredulously. "You do realize that it belongs to them now, don't you?"

LeBeau responded with a piercing glare.

"_La belle France_ shall always belong to her people!" he hissed. "It is for her that I return to battle; let me look upon her once more before I go!"

"Spare me the poetic drivel," Newkirk said, rolling his eyes again. "Just take your money and give me the food."

LeBeau handed him a sack full of bread and hasenpfeffer and accepted his share of the money in exchange, muttering under his breath about London being even worse than Paris.

"What do you mean, we're worse than your Paris? We ain't the ones who surrendered!"

"Please," said the Frenchman. "When I arrive in Paris, I do not have to worry about being caught in an air raid; I only need to hide from the monsters patrolling the streets, and I can count on other to help me do so. You are returning to London while they are still under heavy attack; my chances of survival are far better than yours! And mark my words; one day, France _will_ be free!"

Newkirk's thoughts briefly turned to his two dead friends, both killed within the vicinity of their own homes. LeBeau's words were eerily true; Newkirk had no idea what he was coming home to. He wasn't even going home at all—he would be going to some Heaven-forsaken shelter to try to get his sister out to the countryside… and even then, he wasn't sure how he could afford to put her up somewhere while he returned to combat.

His shoulders slumped. Newkirk had been so spurred by impulse that he had failed to fully think things through. LeBeau, on the other hand, had been planning things since… well, Newkirk didn't even know for how long LeBeau had been keeping the fence hole a secret.

LeBeau seemed oblivious to the Englishman's inner turmoil.

"You have your food; use the rations wisely, and it should last you for some time," he said. "Sleep is a luxury that you cannot afford; remember that, or else you will find yourself sleeping back in the prison barracks—or worse, you will be caught in an endless sleep."

"Right…" Newkirk replied, somewhat blankly.

"Then there is nothing left to say," LeBeau said.

Without even bothering to wish the Englishman good luck, the Frenchman headed off in the southwest direction, towards Paris. The Englishman, on the other hand, stood for a moment as he pondered his options before realizing that he actually felt jealous of the Frenchman. LeBeau knew exactly where he was going and what he was going to do; more than that, he was going to an unbroken family. Newkirk had handled the mail before and had taken note of the number of family members keeping in touch with the Frenchman; left with only a sister and a so-called father who loathed them both, Newkirk's resentment towards him had probably grown due to that.

Newkirk sighed, starting his long journey after getting his bearings, heading northwest.

Well, it was over, wasn't it? He would never have to deal with Louis LeBeau again. He was going home—to Mavis… assuming that she hadn't died since sending that letter…

Newkirk was jolted from his thoughts as the alarm rang out at Stalag 13. He cursed; he had hoped that it would have taken longer for the guards to realize that the two corporals had gone missing.

He quickened his pace. With any luck, his pursuers would end up following the Frenchman; it would be satisfying to see them on the receiving end of a handful of pepper. And it would be an interesting irony for the Frenchman's escape to be foiled after he has so elaborately planned the whole affair.

He tore ahead, stopping only when he became aware of another presence not too far away.

Two German soldiers were searching the area; they had been patrolling the woods, and were now alert upon hearing the alarm at Stalag 13.

Newkirk sunk to his knees, now crawling around the soldiers to avoid being seen by them. Thankfully, the foliage was still sufficient enough for him to hide.

One of the guards turned his head in Newkirk's direction as he heard the underbrush rustle from the corporal's movement. Newkirk froze, his heart racing in his chest. Almost ironically, the childhood games of hide-and-seek he had played with Mavis and their friends returned to his mind. Trees and shrubbery had been his favorite hiding spots even then; he would deftly move from spot to spot as Mavis ran around, looking for them all. Newkirk always managed to be the last found, and now, hiding in the dead of night with the full moon ready to betray his presence, he was praying that this old skill would save him now. This was one hide-and-seek game that he could not afford to lose.

As the solider took a step towards him, Newkirk snapped out of his musings. This was not a game, though some of the more carefree spirits in his old RAF squadron had treated it that way; it had never been a game—not even from the start! This was war; this was a fight for survival and freedom. He could no longer worry about avenging George and Patrick or squabbling with a patronizing French chef; he had to focus on surviving this war, and making sure his sister did, as well.

As the soldier took another step towards him, Newkirk's eyes narrowed, and his hand once again went for his pencil sharpener. This time, however, he would use it in self-defense.

He drew his arm back and took aim—just like he would have done at the dartboard back in the Red Lion. But before he could follow through, the other soldier suddenly let out a surprised cry. Newkirk couldn't understand what he was saying, but he suddenly realized that the light of the full moon had momentarily reflected off of the knife blade; the other guard must have seen it for a split-second.

Now both of the enemy soldiers were approaching him, and the sweat began to pour down the Englishman's face. He could not take on both of them at once; even trying to deal with one of them would have been a difficult task. Trying to escape from these two would be nigh impossible.

He silently cursed himself for ruining his own escape. That Frenchman was well on his way home while the Englishman would once again be thrown back into Stalag 13. The irony was at his expense, considering he had been thinking about the reverse happening.

An odd, metallic sound suddenly echoed from the opposite direction. Both of the two guards turned to face it, and they, along with Newkirk, saw the unmistakable sight of moonlight reflecting off of another metallic surface.

The two soldiers ran over to it, perplexed as one of them lifted the lid of a piece of cookware from the shrubbery; the sound they had heard had been the lid hitting a nearby tree. Newkirk's eyes widened.

_Why? Why would __he__, of all people_…

He stopped himself. No couldn't afford to worry about LeBeau, even if his diversion just saved him.

_You need to focus on getting back to London_, his mind instructed. _Forget about that French bloke. Think about Mavis_.

But Newkirk's conscience wasn't going to remain silent, either.

_He_ _just saved you; nobody told him to do it. You are now in his debt_.

_Debt? What debt?_ his selfish side asked._ It's true—nobody told him to do it. You certainly didn't tell him. If he is expecting you to help him in exchange, he's dreaming. Get moving, or else you'll lose this one extra chance you've got_.

He snuck out of his hiding spot from the underbrush and darted silently westward, pausing behind every large shrub and tree trunk to scout the immediate area ahead.

A tap on the shoulder made Newkirk freeze in his tracks. The Englishman whipped around, drawing his pencil sharpener again. LeBeau stood before him, his arms folded. The moonlight was enough to illuminate the Frenchman's down-turned mouth as he glared at the Englishman in disapproval.

Neither of the two corporals said a word for a moment. Newkirk eventually rolled his eyes and put the knife away, resuming his scouting and darting. The Frenchman was able to keep up, which surprised him; Newkirk hadn't expected him to be able to, considering his shorter legs.

LeBeau broke the silence as they continued westward.

"Just out of curiosity… do you have a desire to look Death in the face?" he asked, sardonically and quietly as he ducked behind the tree where Newkirk had hidden behind. "You know, you did not have to go through such trouble if that was the case. Did you not think that the moonlight would reflect off of the knife? And how did you get the knife here in the first place?"

"Leave off; it's none of your business. Anyway, I thought you were going to Paris. Why did you come back?"

"Do not think it was because I knew you would not last five minutes without my help—even if it is true. The southwest area has too many guards patrolling around," LeBeau said, dodging a few trees as he ran. "I figured I would head west until I found an opportunity to bank southward. And I have news for you—there will be more of them as we go further to the west and to the north; they know that escaped Englishmen will be struggling to get back to London. You are likely to meet many more going northwest; good luck to you."

Newkirk frowned, realizing that LeBeau had a point. Now that the word was spreading about their escape, it was to be expected that more and more guards would be filling the woods. But that still left one question unanswered.

"You said that you were planning to 'ead to London yourself to get back into the fighting," Newkirk said, having fallen behind due to getting lost in his own thoughts. "Just 'ow did you plan to manage that with all of those Germans wandering about in Paris?"

"The French Underground," LeBeau responded, as though he were stating the obvious. "After I was shot down near Salon, I made contact with one of them; she said there was a way to get me to London—they have a network all over France, and Paris is certainly a center for their operations."

The Englishman's eyebrows arched.

"Then 'ow is it you ended up 'ere at Stalag 13 if the Underground was going to 'elp?"

LeBeau's expression darkened as he darted behind the next tree, now officially claiming the position of leader from Newkirk.

"Unfortunately, the next link in the contact chain was a Vichy double agent; he turned us both in, but was silenced by other members of the Underground. I do not know what became of the girl, but I was sent to Stalag 13 after long hours of questioning." Absently, he felt his thumbs; the very memory of the questioning sessions caused them to hurt now and again.

Newkirk took note, but decided not to address it, as they darted behind some more shrubbery. He didn't even know why he bothered asking for the Frenchman's story; it certainly didn't concern him in the slightest.

"I need to get back to London as soon as possible," he murmured. "Are you trying to tell me that I 'ave a better chance of getting there quickly if I go to Paris instead of the coast?"

"If you want the short answer, yes."

"What's the long answer?" Newkirk asked, eyebrows arched as they had to traverse a clearing in the forest.

"Yes, assuming you can make it to Paris," LeBeau said, once they had made it past the clearing. He scouted ahead once again.

Newkirk stared at him as he caught up.

"What do you mean by that?" he asked, though he had an idea.

"I mean that luck is not on your side when it comes to escapes, and whatever hiccups you come across end up thwarting you. Judging by how the first five minutes of your escape has gone, you will not make it to Paris. You will not even make it to France! Do not try to tell me that you are not aware of this yourself."

Newkirk fumed; LeBeau just wanted to see him swallow his pride again.

"Right," he said, bitterly, as they navigated through some close-growing trees. He put on an upper crust accent out of sarcasm. "Kind sir, wouldst thou guide me to thy native land?"

LeBeau crossed his arms, as though pondering over his decision.

"Perhaps I shall," he said. "But you must be vigilant and do exactly as I tell you. I will not allow you to be the reason why I am recaptured. Should you start creating trouble and draw the enemy towards us, I will have to let you fend for yourself."

Newkirk clenched his fists as he had to put up with the Frenchman's condescending tone.

_Heaven give me one chance to abandon him when the enemy gets "drawn towards us_," he mentally hissed, as he followed LeBeau around a large, dead tree. _Just one chance_…

Maybe this was a game after all, he realized. It was a chess game; he was the knight, racing to save the queen. This chef was just a pawn.

_A pawn?_ his conscience chided. _He did save you back there. Does that mean nothing?_

_Absolutely nothing_, Newkirk's selfish side countered. _Any chess player knows that the pawn is always cast aside for the sake of a knight_.

This game would be no different.


	4. Blue Knight, Red Knight

Newkirk kept his thoughts to himself as he followed the Frenchman through the forest. Since outwitting the two guards with the cookware lid, they had been forced to rapidly change course to avoid more of them, resulting in a zigzagging escape route that would, if all went well, eventually lead them to Paris. The Englishman was proceeding to glare daggers at his guide, who merely countered with icy glares over his shoulder. Neither of them said a word to each other.

But just as Newkirk had been waiting and hoping for a chance to leave LeBeau behind, the Frenchman, too, had been harboring similar thoughts earlier, particularly when he had come across the two guards approaching the Englishman. Newkirk didn't realize how fortuitous the rescue had been; the Frenchman had almost not even noticed him hiding in the shrubbery, the only clue being the moonlight that had briefly reflected off of his knife.

In a matter of seconds, LeBeau had processed several thoughts, mainly that Newkirk had been armed (seemingly for a while, at that) and that he probably had been intending to use that very knife on Burkhalter, as well as the fact that Newkirk was on the verge of being recaptured. LeBeau had considered letting it happen; he had even turned away, planning to slip past the two guards as they busied themselves with Newkirk.

But one second was all that it had taken to recall something that his grandmother had once told him in his younger years. He had been no more than eight at the time, tagging after Jean-Philippe and his gang of friends after his family had moved from Èpernay to Paris. None too happy to have a shadow following them, they would always proceed to find a way to lose him. On one such occasion, it had ended up that his elder brother's flunkies had set the boy up to fall gracelessly into the Seine as Jean-Philippe looked the other way. Soaking wet, cold, and humiliated, the young Louis had retreated to the closest shelter he could find—his grandparents' home. His grandmother had taken one look at him and had immediately swooped down on him with her mustard plaster in hand, in spite of his protests. She had listened patiently to his complaints and vows to knock the daylights out of Jean-Philippe and how he now considered him his worst enemy before saying her piece.

"_Do you really hate him so, Louis? An enemy is one you wish great ill towards because they, in turn, wish great ill upon you; do not wish great ill on one who does not deserve it, and do not let them suffer needlessly._"

Grudgingly, he listened to her and decided to let the matter drop, even if, at the time, he had been unable to fully grasp what she had meant. Now, of course, he knew who his enemies were, and recalling her words in the forest had tugged on his conscience. As much as he disliked this Englishman, LeBeau had to admit that he was not an enemy; most of the Germans fit his grandmother's description of that. More for her sake than Newkirk's, he had tossed the cookware lid against a tree to distract the guards long enough for Newkirk to get away. And it was for her sake that he had agreed to lead him to Paris.

LeBeau glared back at Newkirk once more before scouting ahead again.

_I hope you are happy, grand-mère. I cannot even stand him, yet I am helping him_.

For two hours, the corporals kept up this method of scouting ahead and running. Newkirk was a bit disconcerted to find out that LeBeau seemed to have an endless supply of stamina; he showed no signs of slowing down or tiring, as Newkirk had expected. As LeBeau ran on and on, Newkirk found it more and more of a challenge to keep up. But the Englishman pressed on, pushing himself to his limits just to keep up. It bothered him to realize that, after a while, LeBeau was stopping at points solely for Newkirk to catch up. Newkirk refused to acknowledge it, however; as far as he was concerned, he had swallowed his pride enough times that night.

It was only after he arrived at another small clearing that LeBeau stopped. Newkirk opened his mouth to ask something, but the Frenchman held up a hand to silence him, indicating a ring of mushrooms in the clearing.

"Are you barmy?" Newkirk hissed. "We're on the run, and you want to stop for a bunch of ruddy mushrooms?"

"Take a closer look," LeBeau responded, kneeling beside the mushroom ring. "See? These caps have been separated from their stalks. And these ones are crushed—from boots, no doubt." He picked up one of the damaged mushrooms. "These were broken recently—very recently. Soldiers have come through this area; they are still probably close by."

_He figured that out from mushrooms?_ Newkirk asked himself, unable to stop the hint of admiration from creeping in his thoughts. _I wouldn't have given those a second thought_…

"Judging from the way the caps fell, it seems that the soldiers went in this direction," LeBeau went on, pointing towards the northwest. "Just as I thought; they are trying to head us off along the way towards London. I wish to try banking towards the southwest again, but it is possible that the soldiers I saw earlier are also staying in that direction."

He placed his chin in his hands, beginning to think.

"We can't stay out 'ere in the open," Newkirk said, looking around. The guards from Stalag 13 were probably not too far behind them, and even if they had distanced themselves, the dogs were probably on the trail of their scent.

"True," LeBeau agreed, temporarily forgetting about his feud with Newkirk as he got up. "We must keep going due west and hope that the way is clear."

They continued on for some time through the woods beyond the mushroom-filled clearing. It was on one of their next scouting attempts that LeBeau froze.

"Guards," he hissed, his eyes narrowing. Anger turned to concern as he realized that the noises seemed to be growing in intensity. "They are coming this way!"

"Oh, Cor…" Newkirk murmured. "We can't go back, we can't go northwest… You reckon we can try the southwest now?"

"I do not know," the Frenchman responded, truthfully. "They might be coming from the southwest. We can try sneaking past, or find a place to hide and hope that they do not see us… But where? Most of these trees are too thin."

"But they still seem to 'ave their leaves," Newkirk said, beginning to climb up one of them. He had been fond of climbing trees in the London parks as a boy, often scaring his mother half-crazy with worry when she would look up and finally notice him amidst the thin branches. But Newkirk now stuck to the lower branches, hoping that the leaves would shield him from view in the dark of night.

LeBeau stared at the trees, despairing. Climbing trees was not something he had done in his youth, and most of the supporting branches would be beyond his reach, due to his height. Newkirk noticed this and was pleased that, at last, he could do something that the seemingly-perfect LeBeau could not.

"I will have to run," the Frenchman said, quietly.

The Englishman frowned, of two minds about the situation. On the one hand, he had been waiting for an opportunity like this—to see LeBeau be recaptured while he, Newkirk, made it to freedom. On the other hand… that normally-quiet conscience of his was starting to tug on him with more fervor than before.

"There's a fallen tree trunk down there," Newkirk said, at last. "And I do believe it's 'ollow. It's more than long enough for you to 'ide in."

LeBeau followed Newkirk's gaze to find the hollowed-out tree trunk and he knelt in front of the opening. Yes, it would hold him, but…

"What are you waiting for? They're coming!" _And blimey, why am I worried for him?_

LeBeau regarded the enclosed hiding space with a look of sheer horror, his claustrophobia beginning to set in.

No, there was no time for this!

He shut his eyes, proceeding to worm his way inside the hiding place just as the footsteps came crashing past them. Newkirk clung to his tree branch like a cat as LeBeau kept his eyes shut, praying as he struggled to keep his head clear. Sweat poured down the corporals' faces, but for different reasons.

The enemy soldiers stopped, conversing with each other in German. One was certain he had heard noises and voices here, while the others were a bit more skeptical. They seemed to be in agreement when it came to searching the area, however.

Minutes ticked by as the soldiers looked around the area. Newkirk hoped that they would not look up. LeBeau just hoped that he could hold himself together. But as the older corporal felt the familiar sensation of a tightening chest, he realized, in despair, that his hopes had been shattered.

The sound of rapid, pained gasps soon filled the area as he hyperventilated. Newkirk's head turned towards the hollow trunk in disbelief as the German soldiers quickly ran towards it and began yelling for the Frenchman to come out and place his hands behind his head.

_The perfect escape plan, the perfect route to freedom, the perfect provisions, the perfect wilderness survival skills… and he was done in by blooming claustrophobia_, Newkirk thought, hardly daring to believe it.

The younger corporal froze as the guards all started yelling at LeBeau once he was out.

"There were two of you who escaped from Stalag 13!" one barked, in English.

"Yes, where is the Englishman?" another demanded.

Newkirk sighed, mentally preparing himself to start climbing down the tree and surrender once LeBeau ratted him out.

"I… do not know… where he is; we… separated, as I wanted… to go to Paris… while he… headed to London," the older corporal lied, as he struggled to catch his breath. _If I cannot make it home, let me at least ensure that those monsters do not get a full victory. It is what you would have wanted me to do, grand-mère_…

Newkirk almost fell out of the tree in stunned surprise. He certainly had not expected that reply.

The soldiers grumbled, and forced LeBeau back towards the east—towards Stalag 13. After they had gone, Newkirk swung down from the branch he was on and leaped to the ground, recalling his earlier thoughts.

"_Heaven give me one chance to abandon him…_"

Newkirk sighed as he looked longingly towards the west.

_Of all the prayers You could've answered, You had to choose this one?_

He clenched a fist, thinking of how selflessly LeBeau had covered for him, even though he knew that the Frenchman hadn't thought much of him to begin with. He turned towards the east once before turning towards the west again and walking onward, trying to sort out the battling thoughts in his mind.

* * *

Once he had caught his breath, LeBeau's stamina was enough to allow him to regain his otherwise infallible stamina. He was silently berating himself for allowing his claustrophobia to be the reason for his failed escape. As much as he wanted to blame Newkirk for it, having waited at several points for the Englishman to catch up, he knew that he would not have been found had he not hyperventilated. And there was every chance that he would have had to hide in a small space at some point or another; it would have been inevitable.

His thoughts had turned already to a new plan. He still had the money he had received from Newkirk; if he could find another way past the wire, he could try again when the Germans once again let down their guard…

A Cockney accent jolted the Frenchman from his thoughts.

"_Kamerad! Kamerad_!"

"_Quoi_…?" the older corporal murmured, his eyes widening.

The German soldiers leading LeBeau back all exchanged confused looks. One remained guarding the Frenchman as the others moved to follow the sound. LeBeau could only stare, stunned, as Newkirk emerged from the trees, his hands raised in surrender as a new guard prodded him forward at gunpoint; the other guards congratulated him for the capture.

"_I found him, trying to head towards the west_," the new guard said. "_He froze in his tracks when he realized that I had seen him, the fool_!"

LeBeau didn't know much German, but he could tell that they were laughing about something—the ease of the capture, perhaps. The Frenchman bit his lip, but he kept silent as they were forced back to Stalag 13.

Two hours later, the two corporals were in front of Klink's desk as the colonel glared at the two of them.

"So!" he exclaimed. "You two thought that the mice could play once the cat headed into town?"

"You can't blame us for trying, can you?" Newkirk asked, wryly.

"Silence!" Klink snapped, and he turned to Burkhalter. "You see, Colonel Burkhalter? Try as they might, nobody escapes from Stalag 13."

Burkhalter just grunted in response, unimpressed.

"Now, Newkirk… I must admit, I expected this from you," Klink said. "You have quite a record for yourself when it comes to failed escape attempts. This makes attempt number ten! Do you have anything to say for yourself?"

"I'll try me best for number eleven, too, Sir."

"Mmmmph! And you!" Klink turned to the silent Frenchman. "You were a fool to go along with him!"

"I am amazed that he did, _Herr Kommandant_," sighed Schultz, who was standing by with a small crate. "They are always fighting; perhaps you should send one of them to a different barracks?"

Klink's eyes narrowed.

"No… I don't think I shall," he said, with a smirk. If they got along so poorly, then forcing them to be in close quarters would be a fitting punishment. "Schultz, you will see to it that these two remain in the same barracks. But before that, they will both spend thirty days in the cooler!"

"But, _Herr Kommandant_, there is one thing to take into consideration," said Schultz. "They did, after all, help me capture the nasty rat."

He held up the crate he was holding, and something started squeaking and scratching at it from within.

Newkirk stared at the noisy crate for a moment, and then bit back a smirk; in spite of their situation, the fact there had been a real rat running around was, admittedly, amusing. Well, LeBeau didn't seem to think so, however; he stared unemotionally at the crate.

Klink looked at the crate with some amount of disdain, as well.

"I'll think it over," he said, not wanting to lighten the sentence in front of Burkhalter. "Schultz, take these two to the cooler."

"At once, _Herr Kommandant_! But… What do I do with the rat?"

"_Schultz_!"

The sergeant hastily led the corporals into the cooler, still carrying the crate under his arm.

"Just what do you intend to do the rat, Schultzie?" Newkirk asked.

Schultz gave a slight chuckle.

"I don't have the heart to do anything to him; I will release him in the woods. But no telling the _Kommandant_!"

"Wouldn't dream of it," Newkirk assured him, as Schultz left. "Oi, and do try to get us out of 'ere sooner!" He sighed and turned to the Frenchman, taking note that he hadn't said a word since seeing him again. "So, you're claustrophobic?"

LeBeau shot him a fiery glare. The cell itself was bothering him, though not to the extent that the hollow trunk had, of course.

"You were right, of course," Newkirk went on. "Couldn't last five ruddy minutes without you. I reckon I needed a guide more than I thought."

"_Tais-toi, menteur_!" LeBeau snapped. "You are a liar and a fool!"

"Right, you blew you first escape; it ain't as big of a disaster as your painting it out to be," Newkirk said, ignoring the insults. "You 'eard what Klink said—this is me tenth!"

"And now I know why," LeBeau said, dryly.

"So, the next one might go better," Newkirk went on. "Once we get out of 'ere, all we need is to come up with another plan." He smirked, pulling out his pencil sharpener. "Once again, they missed it."

"Never mind about that!" LeBeau hissed. "Why didn't you escape? I covered for you so that at least one of us would do so!"

Newkirk sighed.

"First of all, I was debating with meself on what to do. I know you covered for me for that reason, and I did continue, at first. I'll be honest; I 'ad been 'oping for a chance to do that, but when it actually came, I didn't find it as pleasant as I thought I would. I thought about trying to free you from those goons, but I knew I wouldn't 'ave 'ad a chance. I kept going west, but that bloke saw me eventually. That was when I froze; running wouldn't work, since 'e would get backup from other nearby soldiers. So, in reality, it wasn't any sort of noble sacrifice that made me come back, if that was what you were thinking. But I'll be 'onest again and say that maybe this was for the better; I don't know a word of French, which would've made communicating with those Underground blokes difficult. And seeing as though that you're the only Frenchman 'ere, it means that if I escape, I'm going to 'ave to take you along as a ruddy translator and mushroom reader."

"I am touched beyond belief," LeBeau replied, only being half-sarcastic, as he sensed the hidden message in the East Ender's otherwise snarky words.

Newkirk, in turn, sensed that. There was more to Louis LeBeau than "La Marseillaise" and cooking, he realized. He was no pawn, as Newkirk had first thought; he was a knight, like himself. Perhaps together, they could someday achieve the coveted Checkmate.

****Epilogue****

The capture of the dreaded rat, in all of its irony, caused Klink to eventually relent and release the two corporals after two weeks in the cooler. Their recreation privileges, however, would continue to be suspended for two more weeks. Klink was convinced that forcing the two corporals to remain in close quarters would be a continued punishment for the both of them.

But Klink was to be disappointed. As life slowly returned to normal in Barracks Two, Schultz observed that the fighting between Newkirk and LeBeau had stopped; in fact, the two corporals seemed to be acting much more cordially towards each other. LeBeau's relations with the other Englishmen, however, were as cold as they had been before, and the Englishmen treated him the same way, while ignoring Newkirk as they had always been doing.

One evening, several weeks after the failed escape attempt, LeBeau was busy making ratatouille for his dinner, a new letter from his mother tucked fondly in his pocket. Newkirk was busying himself with a letter that had arrived from Mavis. It was much more hopeful than her last letter; according to her, Newkirk's friend Roger had visited London while on furlough, bringing her the news that James and Phillip were both alive and well. She was still in a shelter, but seemed to be feeling better at the news that Newkirk was not the only surviving member of the Dartboard Six, as he had first feared.

The other Englishmen were looking over their own mail, but now looking towards LeBeau as the ratatouille neared completion. Not about to stand for eating mere rations while LeBeau feasted on it, they proceeded to give him a hard time about it.

LeBeau found himself surrounded by the group of hungry and annoyed Englishmen as they shoved him around, trying to grab at the food. LeBeau fought back; Newkirk looked up from his letter in time to see the short corporal knocked to the ground.

LeBeau cursed the others, moving to get up, but before he could even get to his feet, he paused as he noticed a figure leaping from a top bunk, jumping into the fray and dealing a few punches to the other Englishmen, who seemed too stunned to counter at first. By the time they were ready to grasp the idea of a fellow Englishman defending the Frenchman, LeBeau was back on his feet, standing beside Newkirk. The twin glares from the both of them didn't really intimidate the others in the barracks, but they all backed off, deciding that it wasn't worth the bother.

After they had dispersed, LeBeau sighed and cast a glance at the younger corporal.

"They are your own kind," he reminded him.

"Maybe, but can they read mushrooms?" Newkirk mused.

LeBeau managed a smile, and held up the ratatouille to him.

"Dinner, _mon pote_?"

Newkirk took a look at the ratatouille, not quite familiar with it. It smelled good, however, and it did not escape him that LeBeau was offering to share his food for the first time.

"Ta, little mate," he said, with a smile.

The corporals soon devoured the ratatouille, talking and exchanging stories about the lives they left behind, which ended in a friendly argument as to whether or not the bells of Notre Dame sounded better than those of Westminster Abbey.

They may not have achieved their freedom in the quest they had previously undertaken, but Louis LeBeau and Peter Newkirk hadn't come away from it without gaining something else in return—something that, in the long run, would prove to be more valuable than they could ever have imagined.


End file.
